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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086448">stars that crumble like dust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas'>fearless_seas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thirteen Years. [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Formula 1 RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Break Up, Domestic Bliss, Falling In Love, Fights, Love Confessions, M/M, Rough Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:34:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what love really is:</p><p>The both of them in that apartment wrapped up in sheets with his clothes in his drawers and his name on his mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alain Prost/Ayrton Senna, Nelson Piquet/Alain Prost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thirteen Years. [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1051418</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks for sticking around! In two weeks the final chapter of the 1989 year will be published!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>----- 1989 -----</b>
</p><p>
  <b>November 3rd</b>
</p><p>
  <b>_________________________</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain's hands tremble. His breath falls cold and heavy from his lips as his body shakes; <em>oh god</em>, he is shaking with something he doesn’t understand. He holds his hand out to his face attempting to train his blurred eyes on the quiver in his palms. Something within him senses his world slowly but surely fade away…</p><p>          It started with a fleeting stare as he passed him by. Brazil, 1984, all those years ago. He was standing on the paddock next to Niki Lauda and Nelson Piquet. It was sudden, looking out and seeing the stranger stroll away from him. It was never his intention to fall in love with Ayrton, one day he simply stumbled into his life through the backdoor uninvited. Alain has to remember to keep the locks chained from now on. </p><p>          A deep sigh trickles through him, his shoulders fall as his head comes in between his knees like a lost soldier. His mind is only a sea of thoughts. Alain can’t do a thing but stare at the ground hoping Ayrton's shadow may fall over him once again. A short thread, a cord unwinds within him. <em> And all you want is him</em>. He wants to scream, all of his bones urge him to do so. </p><p>          Alain is seated in between the alley of garages with cigarette butts and the scent of piss when a shadow eventually does pass over him. His fingers push up through his curls as he looks up, his eyes trailing over towards the face. With his vision blurred with tears, he could almost convince himself that it is Ayrton there, arriving from the mist of his desires or his dreams to satisfy him. The person above him has the same dark curls, ones that spring over ears that stick out just too much. </p><p>          “Why the fuck are you sitting on the ground crying?”</p><p>          But it concretes now. The voice is more wary, unfocused. His face is more square, uneven and the lips always perked up into an amused grin. Nelson can never be Ayrton. Alain wonders that question to himself and a distinct flash of memories that flutter across his mind. There is a lightness to his tongue, each swallow like a razor blade in his throat. Through this haze, he manages a laugh, one that steals each last bite of his energy. He laughs again because he realizes, sitting there in the dirt, that his relationship with Ayrton began and ended with a glance. </p><p>          A glance, eyes meeting and only that.</p><p>          Simply that alone was enough to begin and to end his universe.</p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>Seven months earlier: March 26th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain is in love. Maybe he really always was. But this, this was the first time he admits it, and the first time he truly recognizes it within himself. He says it too. Ayrton hovers over him with his hands planted at either side of his shoulders. He guides quickly into him and his lips meet the column of his throat every time Alain’s voice hitches or a moan escapes him. He traps it in his mouth, for him and him alone to enjoy. Alain’s nails dig softly into the flesh of his back creating little indents on his surface like tracks in the snow that always lead home. Ayrton’s eyes meet his for just a moment, a second long enough that Alain is allowed to grab his jaw and press his mouth to his. He can taste a phrase there on their tongue so he pulls away, his eyes moving across Ayrton's nose and cheekbones. </p><p>          “I love you.”</p><p>_________________________</p><p> </p><p>          Alain had arrived two weeks before the season began. Ayrton picked him up from the airport and drove him to where they’ll both be staying: his apartment in the city, close to the racetrack (not like that mattered any to either of them). </p><p>          “Do you want some coffee?”, Ayrton asked placing his keys on a hook by the door and striding towards the kitchen. It was the late afternoon and the sun is blinding. Alain nodded, dropping his bags in a corner by the door and flopping onto the couch in the center area. He was out (like a light) before Ayrton could even start up a pot for him. </p><p>          Alain woke up in the morning after fourteen hours of sleeping. The first thing he recognized is that he doesn’t know this room. He sat up and a mattress creaked below his weight. He stretched out his neck and rose from the bed. He strolls down the long, open hallway and Ayrton is sitting there, drowned in morning light with a picturesque but relaxed expression on his face. He looks up when he enters the room and steals the seat across from him. </p><p>          “You look dressed,” Ayrton smiles softly and his eyelashes flutter gently over sun-bitten cheeks. </p><p>          Alain chuckles, peering down at his ruffled appearance. “Was I supposed to be?”</p><p>          Ayrton shakes his head, <em> no </em>. “Are you hungry?”, he questions. </p><p>          “Starving,” Alain replies greedily, “What are we making for breakfast?”</p><p>          Ayrton blinks, his eyes locking on his. “I decided we should go out today instead,” he slides a slightly cold coffee mug across the table towards him. </p><p>          Alain meets it between his two hands, “A restaurant?” He takes a sip and perhaps he has grown accustomed to stale, bitter coffee because of the rich taste of it takes him by surprise. </p><p>          “Yes.”</p><p>          It’s a small corner shop. Black and white checkerboard floor. It has the scent of the countryside and dust, something oddly appealing. Ayrton takes him on other adventures over the next week they have together--the beach, farmers markets, restaurants he enjoys and other things such as that. Alain shares his bed and he enjoyed that most of all (besides the showers that began with innocent intentions and ended solely in erotica). It was little moments, like Ayrton turning him around in the light of the refrigerator at an ungodly hour; or getting flour matted into his hair because <em> someone </em> decided it was a good idea; the fact that he had his own half of the bathroom. In the end, it was only Ayrton that made all of this feel just like home. Alain wishes it could go on forever. </p><p>          On day five, Ayrton cleared one of his bottom drawers out. Alain is sitting on the couch when he comes in and tells him that he opened a dresser for him in the bedroom. And that was home more than anything: the both of them in the apartment cooking and pretending as if nothing else in the world existed. He undresses a part of himself, lays it bare, naked and vulnerable in these times. </p><p>          A week into it, Ayrton rolls over to him in the bed in the morning sunshine. His hair is matted at his ears and he hoists himself on an elbow. “You know, you’ve been here so long that these sheets are starting to smell more and more like you,” he buried his face into the pillow and peeks an eye out him. </p><p>          Alain smiles, scooting in a little closer and he says solely this: “I believe that if I could fall asleep beside you every night, I couldn’t ever be sad again.”</p><p>          The night before first practice, Alain dresses up, sprays himself with his favorite cologne and they go out to dinner. It's dimly lit restaurant where Ayrton keeps teasing his ankle under the table. Alain's expression remains amused over his glass of wine, <em> it’s pathetic really, how much I hope it will be only you and I in the end</em>. Ayrton cannot contain himself until they are back in the safety of the apartment, his hand slides over his thigh in the back of the taxi. Everytime another street lamp passes them by, it grows closer and closer, shutting in farther towards his inner leg. Alain isn’t even worried the driver will see them. Ayrton hands the driver some money as they step out. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Alain’s back is shoved against it. His head knocks at the force and his tongue tastes a bit of copper leaking into his throat. This was destined to kill him in the end, destined leave him in ashes; but he consigns himself to live just a little longer in the bright flare of these flames. </p><p>          Ayrton’s hands roam over him, everywhere and in everything, across the plains and surface of his back. It takes Alain only that minute, on their bed with his stuff in the dresser across the room and his toothbrush in his bathroom. His ghost in the living room, in the kitchen and his fingerprints over the stove, mingling with his. It is laying there with Ayrton above him knowing how vulnerable he is but not being afraid. Moonlight, it dances over the sheets, over his back and his skin like a phantom of his love touching every bit of him that he cannot reach. It takes nothing more than this: being with him. </p><p>          “I love you.”</p><p>          Ayrton is quiet for a moment, just a moment to catch his breath. “I know,” his fingers reach up and curl a lock of his hair behind the shell of his ear. A slow breath of careful intimacy as he cares for him. “I love you, too.”</p><p>          Alain buries his face into his neck, breathing the scent of cinnamon into his lungs. He wonders if he should hold his breath because a piece of him is afraid if he exhales too much, he will lose what bit of him filters through his lungs. This is what love really is:</p><p>          The both of them in that apartment wrapped up in sheets with his clothes in his drawers and his name on his mind.</p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>April 23rd</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “How are you, Gerhard?”, Alain lays flat on his mattress with an emptiness in his stomach. The kind that shuttles through his gut and brings a nausea to his tongue. </p><p>          “<em>In pain</em>,” Gerhard chuckles tightly and Alain grimaces at the sound. </p><p>          “Well,” Alain winces, “A broken rib, shoulder and second degree burns does that to you.”</p><p>          There is a foreign voice in the background on the other line and he can hear Gerhard muttering about. “<em> I’m sorry, Alain, I’ll be right back </em>,” Alain hums in reply and lays the receiver flat on his chest. It was an effort to keep his mind off of the race today. He shuts his eyes and circles the pads of his fingers over his eyelids. He wants to take a shower and wash the memory of his conversation with Ayrton out of his mind.</p><p>
  <em>           “You are acting like a child, Alain.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “We had a deal. I trusted you and you don’t listen, only when it conveniences you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “We never had a deal,” Ayrton scoffed, “You are just upset that you are in second and I am first.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “Ayrton, you know that is not true.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “Then why are you upset right now?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “The orders were not respected.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “The orders for you to win, correct? But if the orders were for me, would you be saying the same thing?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “This is about the team.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “No, Alain,” Ayrton stabs a finger into the very core of his chest, “This is about you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “I need a break,” he sighs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “What do you mean?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           "This. Us. Apart. Just until the end of the next race weekend. I need to clear my head.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           Ayrton’s eye twitches and he clenches his jaw. His lips ache with something dreadful to say and it is the one of those times that he doesn’t. Instead, he blinks slowly and calms himself. “Whatever, Alain.” </em>
</p><p>          “Alain?”, his eyes shoot open suddenly. He is still in the hotel room, the one he got for himself without Ayrton in it. His fingers dig into the comforter and his chest falls slowly. “<em> Are you there? Sorry I took so long, it was a nurse. </em>”</p><p>          Alain guides the phone back up to ear, swallowing and clearing his throat. “Yes, I am here. What did she have to say?”</p><p>          Gerhard laughs, “<em> Not all nurses are women, Alain. But now that you ask, something about controlling the pain. I was a little too distracted by her leaving… if you catch me. </em>”</p><p>          Alain rolls his eyes, “You are taking too much pain medication.”</p><p>          The Austrian hums interestly, “<em> Heard you got second today. Found out sometime while in the emergency room, the television was on in the back. Shitty quality, but what can I expect? I think my eyes were too blurred, I was holding them closed while this surgeon fucked around with my chest. </em> ” Alain manages a forced and airy laugh. The line grows quiet for a moment. “ <em> Is everything okay between you and Ayrton? </em>”, he inquires quietly. </p><p>          The question catches him by surprise. He allows the sentence to settle in his mind, rattle about there. “Sure. Why are you asking? Did he say something?”, he rolls into a more alert position. </p><p>          “<em>No, </em> ” he draws out, “<em>He just happened not to be able to shut the fuck up about you when he came to visit me.</em>”</p><p>          “Go on…”</p><p>          “<em>Kept pacing the room like a maniac. Honestly, I think he is the one who should be in the emergency room, not me!</em>”, he chuckles dryly. “<em>Don’t ask what he said because I wasn’t paying attention. Something about fuck this, fuck that, fucking hell, fuck you… it went on for an hour before I told the nurse to lie and say visiting hours were ended. </em>”</p><p>          Alain feels oddly tired now. “How about you get some sleep? We want to see you riding your car again soon, you hear?”</p><p>          “<em>Believe me, Alain, injury makes you more appealing to women, I am going to be riding a lot more than just a car.</em>”</p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>May 4th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          The both of them still aren’t speaking before Monaco. He took the past few weeks, cleared his head and tried to approach Ayrton during practice only to be ignored. <em> Fine </em> , he notes, <em> I’ll just give him time to figure it all out </em>. It is a split moment, standing beside his car after qualifying with sweat running into his brow and the qualifying results on the board in front of him. It is only that split second, one where he doubts his abilities as a driver. Ayrton is across the room, placing his helmet down and undoing the zipper of his overalls. He wonders if this is how Niki felt when he was brought to McLaren (in those days the Austrian enjoyed to call him frog behind his back--classy). He has to remind himself that he has two world championships and is fighting for a third.</p><p><em>           You’re not a shitty driver, Alain</em>. Who was is it that told him this one time?  <em> “...iI you keep thinking that then that is when you will become a shitty driver.” </em></p><p>          He supposed he has some things to thank Nelson Piquet for (he never imagined he’d say that). </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>May 5th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          The first words he says to Ayrton in weeks, he doesn’t vocalize. It was Ayrton on the podium above him with a glint of emotion in his eye. It was Ayrton spraying him with champagne and his eyes saying:</p><p><em>           Come on, let’s go home</em>.</p><p>          Alain missed him. Even when he is not absent. A dangerous necessity that leaves a searing shape in the form of them in his heart. It was burnt, torn like a scar forever into his skin… He wraps himself in him for the first time in weeks that night. Maybe he never understood religion until him. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>June 4th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton’s shoulders are tense and his jaw tightly wound. Alain places his hands softly upon his shoulders. </p><p>          “What's wrong?”, Alain sighs as Ayrton climbs slowly to his feet. </p><p>          “That was my race,” Ayrton swallows arching his his brows.</p><p>          Something in him shriveled. “Why can’t you ever be happy for me?”, he sighs, averting his eyes. </p><p>          Maybe Ayrton didn’t understand himself. “Because I like to win,” and his voice drips with a certain peace to himself. </p><p>          Alain’s hands fold over his cheeks, drawing his face towards him and bringing their forehead into contact. Ayrton’s hands grasp the front of his shirt so tightly he swears his knuckles should snap. He closes his eyes, “Is it worth it to lose what we have?”</p><p>          Ayrton saying nothing told him more than words could. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>June 18th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “I'm worried,” Alain notes, his fingertips trail circles over his bare chest. </p><p>          “Why? What about?”, Ayrton moves him off of his shoulder and moves onto his side to face him. </p><p>          “Stupid things,” he mutters and he presses his face farther into the sheets. Ayrton's lip curls and Alain gives up easily. “I am worried that being on the same team is…” He stops himself and his eyes move down. </p><p>          “Is what?”</p><p>          “Ruining us,” he admits. </p><p>          Ayrton shrugs, rolling onto his back, his eyes piercing into the ceiling. “You are right, that was stupid,” he chuckles. Alain nibbles on his inner cheek, “But you’re not wrong.”</p><p>          He sighs, “You realize I expected you to say the opposite.”</p><p>          “Well, it is true,” Ayrton moves his hands from behind his head and lays them parallel at his sides. “You want to win, I want to win and we are in the best team, driving the best car at the moment,” a yawn escapes him and he has a drowsy effect to him. </p><p>          “Ferrari offered me a seat next year,” Alain says, biting on his nails. “We would be in different teams, different cars,” and he is close to signing the contract but he hasn’t told Ron Dennis yet. </p><p>          Ayrton’s brows merge, his focus keeping away from him, “You’ve been on the team for longer than anyone, are you certain? You would be going to a less dominant team.”</p><p>          Alain hooks his leg over his under the sheets and his hand clasping to his shoulder. “There are more important things than winning, you do know that? Sanity is one of them," Ayrton shifts his body away from him, turning his back.</p><p>          “Whatever it is you want, Alain,” he is sleeping within only a few seconds without another verse. </p><p>          Alain wants to reach across the bed for him, tug him just a little closer. His hand shifts to the empty space between them. The distance could’ve been miles for all it felt to him. </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 7th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          “I would like to announce that I have officially signed with Ferrari for the next season.” </p><p>          Alain is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t mind press conferences. What he doesn’t enjoy is the blinding flash of cameras, however, and nor does he like the scrutiny the camera puts him under. As soon as he says that, the room explodes into somewhat of an uproar. He shields his eyes and Gerhard sits on his right fresh from questions concerning his recovery. </p><p>          Gerhard leans into him, distracted from the millions of inquires getting thrown towards him. “How much do you want to bet they will ask about Ayrton?”, Gerhard sends him a wink, one that makes him gulp hard. His throat bobs sulkily. </p><p>          He wonders how much that bet was because Gerhard elbows him right above his hip at the first question he hears: “Does this have anything to do with your teammate, Ayrton Senna?” Gerhard has an <em> I told you </em> look perking the corners of his mouth. </p><p>          Alain scowls and then turns his attention outwards. “I don’t think, with the current situation, it would be right for me to stay at McLaren with Ayrton as my teammate.”</p><p>          His mind swims, he only wants to lie down forever. </p><p>        <em> Maybe this will all be worth it in the end</em>. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Things fall apart.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 16th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton hasn’t slept in their bed for the past two nights but on the third night he finally does. The air smells of rain and there is thunder crackling in the distance. Occasionally a strike of lightning will rattle the window pane. Alain’s eyes train past the glass, towards the sounds that breaks the still silence of the room. </p><p>          “Your plane leaves on Wednesday?”, he turns his head and Ayrton is sitting on the bed musing over a stack of papers spread in front of him on the mattress. </p><p>          “Yes,” his focus is honed in on his work and he doesn’t look up. “Yours on the same day, right?”, Alain nods. “Why are you asking?” Eventually, he peers up at him. </p><p>          “We could go into London for a few days,” Alain hops off from the ledge and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “We could drive there, get a hotel room and we would get one full day, if we leave early tomorrow,” he sounds almost hopeful. </p><p>          Ayrton’s peeks over at him, slipping his pen behind the shell of his ear. “I have a lot of work to do,” he gestures. Alain shoulders fall, “But it would be good to get away for a few days until the next race.”</p><p>          Alain presses a kiss to the undercut of his jaw and Ayrton chuckles. “I’ll book us a room,” he smiles. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 17th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain likes London in the rain. It is not often he takes a slip away from the racetrack to visit the surroundings before returning home to Switzerland. The sky is gray, occasionally lined by sparks of sunlight trapped behind them. It carries the feeling of being isolated in a cabin during the winter storms. It’s only a two hour drive, Alain at the wheel and mud kicking up against the windows as they go. Ayrton is writing in the passenger seat, a pen in his mouth and his brows furiously scrunched. Alain glances over from time to time and he wonders, <em> are they the lighthouse or the storm? </em> The rain continues through the day into the evening. The moment they are in the hotel room it’s the late afternoon and they’re both soaked to the bone. One bed, a tv, a balcony and a bathroom. It is one of those hotels that leaves little gifts on the pillows. </p><p>          “Do you need a shower?”, Alain inquires, stripping off his clothing and leaving them draped over the back of one of the chairs to dry. </p><p>          “No,” Ayrton drops onto his back on the bed and shuts his eyes, “I’ll dry off in a minute.”</p><p>          Alain places his things in one corner and shakes out his curls, shoving them up onto his forehead. “I am going to take a shower, then we can have dinner.” Alain’s hand is on the bathroom door when Ayrton suddenly sits up in command. </p><p>          “Now I want a shower,” he smirks with a tease in his upper lip. Pulling off his clothing, he leaves a little trail behind him as he follows. </p><p>          Alain enjoys this. Hair soaked and matted on their foreheads. Ayrton's nose is pink from the cold while his teeth press into his shoulder blade. His hands run over the sides of his hips, bringing him up just a little higher. Ayrton suddenly pulls away and Alain is left with half a moan coming out of his mouth. </p><p>          “Your hair looks like a wet mop,” Ayrton shakes his head and returns his attention to his neck. </p><p><em>           Someone told you that once before, didn’t they? </em> Alain doesn’t understand it but some small part of him is saying: <em> no matter where you are, or where you are going and have been, take in these moments because you’ll never be here again</em>. And there is a certain tenseness to Ayrton’s touches, as if hesitant or distracted. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 18th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain wakes up at seven and slaps Ayrton awake at eight. There is a peculiar greatness to it: the scent of the earth after it rains. It’s a blend of cool fresh air and cigarette smoke. Ayrton strokes his hips as they walk and his touch feels almost like sandpaper. Alain enjoys the lights the most. The glow of tall buildings that ignite a dark and otherwise dreary day. Ayrton’s fingertip hooks his sleeve as they walk and he kisses him at the side of a building, a shadowed spot that grows further murky by the closing of a day. That night in the hotel room,  Ayrton’s hands are frigid from the weather, shivering beneath the lapels of his coat. His breath made little fogs in the air, his body is still cold and quivering under the sheets as he turns away from him to sleep. Alain wonders why he cannot face him. He supposes Ayrton had a passion for racing so large that it vanquished all other passions he exhibited. He hopes that he isn’t seen as solely a passion to him. Because they were that and everything else for him. </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 19th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Ayrton’s demeanor is still stiff, bridled and he stuffs his items back into his suitcase. <em>It’s been like this for months, hasn’t it?</em></p><p>          Alain’s eyes fall to the bed as he pulls the blankets out of the frame, placing them on the carpet. “Are you upset with me or something?”, he asks and he can hear Ayrton pause for a moment before continuing. </p><p>          “Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmurs offhandedly. </p><p>          Alain stops and the fabric is still gripped like stone in his hands. “Then why are you acting like it?”</p><p>          “I’m not,” the clasps of his bag snap shut and he has a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I have a plane to catch,” and he passes him without a second word towards the door. </p><p>          “Are you sure?”</p><p>          Maybe Ayrton considers it. That is why the door doesn’t open for a another minute and Alain waits standing by the side of the bed hoping he will turn around a face him. “Don’t think so stupidly,” and the door opens, “I will see you Germany.”</p><p>          When it closes, the material is still raveled in his hands. A certain untrained frustration that had festered beneath his surface breaks through. He slams the sheets down and then his hands land to the sides of his face. He can feel his fingers shaking on his cheeks, shivering just like Ayrton did in the cold with his cheeks glowing red and his words hanging like ice in the air. The swelling frost of these sentences curl up, reach down his throat and prod at the core of who he was. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>July 30th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          In Germany, he is told by the press that he would've been unable to overtake Ayrton if they hadn't had a broken gearbox. He is not prone to anger but the thought of it rests on his soul, makes his eyes twitch and his knuckles crack together. Ayrton calls it bullshit, defends him and Alain is left alone in the garage with him after the press conference. </p><p>          “Thank you,” and his hand meets his shoulder, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. Ayrton pats his hand, a weak smile scrunching his eyes. </p><p>          “Anytime, Alain,” and his touch dwindles away into oblivion. Alain wants it to be like this for longer, standing there in the paddock with his warm breath and his hands touching far more than just his skin. They were a fresh breath of air in the morning, suffocating him as he falls asleep. And he loves him too much for it. Far too much. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>August 27th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain doesn’t see Nelson that day, or that weekend. He does hear of his shunt in qualifying, one that did not allow him to qualify for the race at all. There isn’t a use in him having traveled all the way to Belgium if he cannot race anyways. He hopes their headaches are better. Alain wonders if their temper is still fiery as ever, if his eyes still have that livid, lifelike shine of insecurity to them: sharp as glass against the burn of the sun. The dangerous glare of simply wanting just to be swept up and glued back together. Alain is too afraid of cutting his fingers on those pieces. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>September 10th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          After Italy, Alain can tell the story of how Ron Dennis threw a trophy at his feet. He didn’t deserve the trophy in the first place, that's why he gave it to the tifosi standing in front of the podium. He is coming back with a drowsy sense in his mind. Ron is leaned against the garage, his face is scarlet and his jaw tightly wound.</p><p>          “Where is the trophy, Alain?”, he kicks off the wall and Alain freezes, the corner of his eye twitching. “What did you do with it?”, and the constructor’s trophy is still pasted to his hands. When Alain didn’t answer, it comes down at his shoes and he is sent hopping back in shock. “You’re bloody ridiculous,” Ron rings a finger furiously in his face, “You and Ayrton, the whole lot of you. Fucking ridiculous.”</p><p><em>           Ridiculous.</em> There is is again. It rings in his ears several hours later. </p><p>          “I didn’t deserve it,” he simply says, shaking his head as he parts ways out of the garage without bothering to take off his suit. He climbs into his car and his forehead falls against the steering wheel. </p><p> </p><p>________________________</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>          Ayrton hobbles off of the bed after finishing him off that night. He grabs up his clothes, snatching them into his arms and dropping them unceremoniously onto the bed. Alain arches up on an elbow, watching him pull his pants up and snap his belt together. </p><p>          “Where are you going?”, he calls out to him. </p><p>          Ayrton ignores him for a second, continuing to button up his shirt. “Out,” he mentions smally, sitting down to tug his socks over his ankles. “With Gerhard, we’re going to get drinks,” and he stands up, facing the long mirror and flicking the hair out of his eyes. </p><p>          “Oh,” Alain lands back on the surface of the bed but keeps him in the corner of his eye. He watches Ayrton in the mirror, wondering if he is still the wired-haired man with wild freckles and an untamed soul that he always thought he was. He doesn’t know anymore and that stings like a sore wound under his sheath. “Will you back?”, the hopefulness has returned to his voice. </p><p>          “Maybe,” but Ayrton doesn’t pick the extra room key up from the desk right beside him. Even after he leaves, Alain can recall his hands on him, or his breath in gentle waves over the nape of his neck. It hurts more this way because he loves him. He doesn’t regret loving him, but a small, undisclosed piece of himself is very frightened. The cold winds of his life blow in through the open window, touching his skin and swimming over his cheeks. </p><p>
  <em>           It’s beautiful, isn’t it? </em>
</p><p><em>           How it hurts but we never give up</em>. </p><p>
  <em>           Even as the sands of the hour glass are draining, draining, draining away… </em>
</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>October 22nd</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          Alain remembers the last time he kissed Ayrton. It is vague, but he remembers it well enough. It is a thorn he wishes could be plucked from his memory. He could’ve told himself to hold onto it longer, cradle it and press it like a flower into the pages of his mind. He is sitting in the car with Ayrton driving to Suzuka. The engine cools to a stop as they park and Alain leans across the seats to him, his lips pressing over his jaw and up to the corner of his mouth. It comes to him now, a little while later, that he does not remember the last time Ayrton kissed <em>him</em>. His chest tightens and Ayrton unbuckles his seatbelt. </p><p>          “Come on, we must go,” and he is out of the car before Alain has time to even open his eyes. He is foolish, so very, very foolish. And there’s something so utterly foolish in this life that makes you feel incomplete because you constantly leave parts of yourself within everything you touch. He didn’t know it at the time, far from it, that it would be the last time for a long time. (He touches his lips so very often trying desperately to reimagine what it was like to have them on his.) He'll always be angry with Ayrton but he holds this deep inside, pushing it towards the well in his gut. </p><p>          What he does remember clearly is the accident. He is on the outside line of the turn and then he was sideways on the track with Ayrton waving frantically beside him. His head spinning, he smells the smoke of tires crackling in the air. He wasn’t confused, or upset nor lost--he was angry. After he had climbed out of his cockpit and Ayrton is exiting the chicane back onto the track, Alain spent the remainder of the race in the steward’s office. It’ll be a question that he carries with him forever: <em> whose fault was it? </em> Ayrton’s face wears the imprint of his helmet on his cheeks and he doesn’t pass him a single glance as he passes towards Balestre at the end of the race. When told of the disqualification Ayrton shouts profoundly and leaves with his fists at his side. </p><p>          Yet, not a part of Alain feels guilty. Not even a speck. But, he’d never seen a man so angry in his lifetime. Never. </p><p>          “Ayrton!”, Alain walks up quickly behind him. He is ignored for a moment, Ayrton continuing on his way with a visible recoil at the sound of Alain's voice as it echoes against the concrete walls towards him. Alain manages to get close enough that he can touch him, his hand coming forward to wrap over his upper arm. </p><p>          Ayrton raises another hand, smacking his touch off of him. “Don’t you dare, don’t you even try,” his voice has a edge to it like he can scarcely contain himself. </p><p>          Alain’s brows narrow, “It was as much your fault as my fault.”</p><p>          “You got me disqualified,” and his teeth are clamped together. Alain can tell even though his back is to him. His thumbs press into the beds of his hands with a certain ferocity. </p><p>          Alain swallows thickly, “You crashed into me.”</p><p>          “And you <em> cheated</em>!”, Ayrton spins around to face him now, his eyes are wide and his mouth curls in disgust. It startles Alain, enough to make him back towards the wall with Ayrton hovering over him. And Alain wonders: <em> would he would ever hit me?  </em> “You knew you couldn’t beat me,” his jaw is so tight it may snap, “You decided to crash into me, you <em> cheated</em>.”</p><p>          Confidence strikes him. “Yeah?”, Alain snorts in rage. Their chests are mere inches apart, “But who is going to win the world championship now? Not you.”</p><p>          Ayrton is suddenly silent. He blinks several times and runs his teeth over his bottom lip as though it were meat to carve. A thick tension rises between them. “I thought you were better than this,” the edges of his eyes are sharp, alive and it makes Alain melt into the floor. </p><p>          “That’s right,” he snaps, “the great Ayrton Senna,” and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. “So <em> weak </em> that he can’t take accountability for his actions.” </p><p>          “Shut up,” Ayrton is shaking with rage.</p><p>          “Always someone else, correct?”</p><p>          “Stop it, right now,” he moves away and his back is heaving. </p><p>          “Selfish enough to win another world title that he’ll kill--”, that’s when, in the blink of an eye, the back of Alain’s head cracks against the wall and Ayrton’s hand is on his throat. All of the breath is knocked out of his lungs and he is so shocked that he doesn’t realize he isn’t breathing. His vision blackens, pecking itself with little stars as the fingers squeeze at his veins. It takes a second of him struggling against the hold on his neck before their eyes meet. Ayrton suddenly stiffens at this interaction, loosening his grip and removing his hand. He steps back as though he’d been burnt by hot coals, startling even himself. Alain coughs profusely, his shoulders still pressed to the wall, his hands climbing up to his neck as he leans over to catch air. And this... this is the first time he has ever been frightened since 1982 when Didier's Ferrari smashed behind him.</p><p>          <em>Do I look as scared as Nelson did that day?</em> Ayrton has a look, a shine in his eye that he has never seen before and it took himself a few moments to figure out exactly what it was. It’s half-hearted, half-hopeful. It was perhaps the most honest thing he’s ever done in his company. </p><p>          <em> Remorse</em>. </p><p>          “Alain…”, but Ayrton stops himself and backs away. His hands are trembling. Alain wants to ask: <em> if you hadn’t seen my eyes, remembered that I was human, would you have killed me? </em>Alain slides to the ground, crouched, his heart drumming up like a frantic bird against his ribs. Maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer. Ayrton stumbles out before he even has time to gaze up; gone before he can even say goodbye. Maybe that’s what these months were, these months of trying: making sure he was ready when they eventually left him. He recalls the apartment, the smell of Brazilian cooking and his clothes; he wonders if that drawer is still his. He’d never felt a feeling so hollow or so, so alone as his fingers run up to his hair and face falls into his arm.</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>October 29th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          But he waits a week before calling. When he does, he can’t get a word out before Ayrton hangs up on him. The second time he calls, he leaves a message. The only thing he can make out is his name before he puts the phone away for good. </p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>November 3rd</b>
</p><p><em>           And here we are again</em>. </p><p>          Hands trembling, breath cold, body shaking. Fingers out, blurry eyes; the world slipping between his fingers. A homesickness--<em> who knew missing home was an illness? </em>His relationship with Ayrton started with a glance: Brazil, 1984. He sighs, falling, his head is heavy. It’s just minutes ago he last saw Ayrton before he was left in the alley between two garages to pick up the pieces.</p><p>
  <em>           “We are finished.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “What do you mean? Ayrton?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “I don’t care for you anymore.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “You don’t mean that.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>           “I shouldn’t care about my competition.” </em>
</p><p>          And we're back at the beginning. </p><p>          It ended the same way too: a lost, forgotten glance of him striding away. He will sit there on the ground, praying he'll come back. And someone does. Someone with tanned skin, wisps of unruly dark hair, thick brows and quick movements. <em> You trick yourself that it could possibly be them</em>. </p><p>          “Why the fuck are you sitting on the ground crying?”</p><p><em>           He can never be him</em>. A sharp tongue, dull swallows and a laugh: his world also ended with a glance across a distance alone. He hadn’t realized he was crying until he couldn’t see the face of the man above him. Perhaps he’d spent so long with that specific man he could recognize him with words alone; by only the press of their footprints in the dirt.</p><p>          “You look pathetic,” Nelson reaches out an arm to him, pulling him to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?”, and all Alain can do it focus on the dirt smudging his sleeve as a few drips of tears come off of his chin onto his uniform. It’s Ayrton’s eyes that come into focus in his mind, the sharp but distant sadness behind them that spiked up from a cloak of darkness. Alain shrugs out of his grasp and is gone. </p><p> </p><p>____________________________</p><p> </p><p>          Alain wins his third world championship. All this with Ayrton standing beside him and no words between them. He feels as though the smallest thing could push him over the edge. <em> What if everything he’d ever wanted only existed in his dreams</em>. <em> How do you explain something you do not understand yourself? </em></p><p>          He hasn’t spoken to Nelson in weeks and, before that, it had been months. Nelson is tugging his car keys out of his pocket as Alain crosses the parking lot towards him. Nelson glances up as he approaches, rising a pained smile to his lips, “Look, it’s the little champion.” He shakes his head while keeping the corner of his eye on him as though he is preparing himself to run. “Come to grace me with your--”</p><p>          “Take me to your room,” Alain interrupts.</p><p>          Nelson pauses, his mouth firm. “Why?”, and his voice sounds like a snarled curl of cigarette smoke in the air.</p><p>          “Just do it,” and Alain is disgusted with his own desperation. </p><p>          But the drive is silent. Nelson keeps his distance across his seat, pressing his hip to the door as though he may throw himself out of it at any moment. In the room, Nelson doesn’t touch him at first, he only locks the door and keeps the lights off. But never was Nelson the the sort of man to wait around for another to lay their claim so after Alain stares at his feet for too long, Nelson crosses the room. He pinches his chin and brings his face up to face him. There’s a flicker of pity in the man’s eyes. But Alain keeps his own eyes away, averting them to the wall. It is so dark he can scarcely see a single silhouette. Cautiously, Nelson pins his lips to the corner of his mouth, waiting for him to do something in return. And this makes Alain impatient. So impatient with the slowness of it all, he smashes into him, shoving Nelson towards the bed. His clothes leave him, his shell, his shelter and everything that comes with it is gone. He is naked, and Nelson seems also very afraid even if he doesn’t sound like it. </p><p>          “<em>Olhe para voce</em>…”, his fingers between his legs are slow, but not deliberately so. “<em>Voce esta bonita</em>…”, and Nelson's voice sounds as though he has been starved for years, yearning to cover himself in every bit of him he can while it lasts.</p><p>          Alain lays on his stomach, waiting for him and the guilt prods deep in his gut. <em> I shouldn’t do this to him</em>, but he doesn’t listen nor he doesn’t care. He inhales sharply and Nelson starts a pace into him, Alain’s hands coiling in the sheets, bracing himself over the mattress. And in his head a thought blooms, pulsating with every thrust: everything he has done wrong, every name, mistakes he has made, the worry that he will slowly become all of these things that he fears. Nelson barely touches him, he leaves his hands away from his body. Occasionally, he brushes his fingers over his hips, his stomach, his back, his shoulders or his throat… as he huffs behind him and Alain shuts his eyes. It is so obscure in the room, the curtains drawn tight.</p><p>          All he wants is to desperately feel just a little less alone. <em> And the hand are just a little harder, the thrusts far deeper and the voice is so, so much stronger</em>. He is close, so close that his throat is hollowing out and his legs are quivering. He shudders and Nelson picks up speed as he whimpers. So it falls out, a secret that tumbles into the atmosphere around them, so very quiet and heard all of the same. It’s a three syllable name that had reached out from his heart into the open air. His tongue betrays him with a hitch in his breath and he recalls how the Brazilian sunshine felt on his skin.</p><p>          “Ayrton…”</p><p>          Everything stops suddenly and Alain peels his eyes open. He is still in the dark room without sight. Rare slivers of brightness splashes through the drapes. “Did you just…” and Nelson is still with torment.</p><p>          “I can explain--”</p><p>          “So,” Nelson snarls and Alain gulps as he reaches forward, wrapping a hand under his jaw. “This is what this is all about?” Alain doesn’t respond. The fingers curl farther over his neck, drawing his face towards him with a quick motion, “Do I fucking look like Ayrton Senna to you?” He lets go, flinging his head back to where it was before. Alain feels embarrassed most of all and the shame makes him pull away, rolling onto his back against the headboard. But Nelson catches his wrist sharply before he can slide off of the bed, “You are not fucking leaving until I’m done.” There is a soft hurt to his voice. An edge of salt over carved ice. It’s a few more minutes, ones where Alain’s eyes linger towards the window and the light reminds him of the sheets he once shared with someone else.</p><p>          Nelson kicks him out afterwards, shoves him into the hallway with his clothes thrown out behind him. He doesn’t make it far into his own room, he collapses by the door in crumpled clothing feeling dirty. And there's something about Ayrton, something about him that had crawled itself into the darkest, dirtiest, deepest corners of his mind. So it is there, on the carpet, meters from the bed, where he buries his face into his knees and surrenders to himself. He surrenders with only a collection of false memories to sustain him.</p><p> </p><p>__________________________</p><p>
  <b>December 25th</b>
</p><p> </p><p>          It arrives, of all times, on Christmas to his home. A brown postal parcel shut with clear tape. Anne-Marie brings it to him and, confused, he takes it up to his office. He cuts it open with a knife and he knows before he gapes inside what its contents are. The scent hits him first: fresh cooking and humidity, lust and <em> him.</em> It's few articles of clothing and a book, everything that was in the damned bottom drawer in Sao Paulo. He folds the items slowly, enduringly, his fingertips tracing carefully over the threads of each one. He clenches his jaw, moving forward with struggle until there is nothing left in the box. One of his sweaters is missing, it shouldn’t frustrate him, but it does. He tosses the empty box across the room and sighs loudly into his hands. </p><p>          “<em>Papa</em>?”, Alain shoots his gaze up and his eldest son Nico is leaning into the doorframe. Nico is lot softer than he is, mote gentle and he doesn’t get it from his mother. “<em>Est ce que ça va?</em>”, his head angles. </p><p>          “<em>Oui</em>,” he smiles tenderly. Nico doesn’t believe it for a second because he nervously shuffles his feet. “<em>Descendre, je vais me joindre à vous dans un instant</em>,” but his son hesitates, observing him as if wishing to say something and his eyes fall to the empty box. </p><p>          “<em>Qu'y avait-il dedans?</em>”, he questions, gesturing towards it. </p><p>          “<em>Rien</em>,” he replies, lying, “<em>a chez ta Maman</em>.” </p><p>          Nico parts, closing the door behind him quietly. Alain puts the clothes back into the box, snatching up one of the shirts and pressing his nose to it. <em> Just as I remembered, just as I dreamed</em>. He places it at the bottom of his closet, near the back; hiding it like another secret of his. The snow is falling gently against the night, brushing over the glow of the street lamps. He had submitted himself to someone else’s soul, into all of his fears--wholly, fully and madly. His forehead presses to the window, the cold sweeps over his features. He can’t help imagining the both of them were much as snowflakes, surreal in their solitary. But the winter must one day melt away. His breath hitches in pain, huffing up the glass and he closes his eyes with a deep sigh.</p><p>          “Merry Christmas, Ayrton...”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! My Tumblr is @pieregasly if you have any important questions etc. I read and respond to every comment so please drop them :) Sorry for this tragedy of a chapter, haha. I'll see you guys in twenty days for 1990 which will be a singular chapter.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading. My tumblr is @pieregasly if you have any comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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